


Worries

by kouw



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Gen, General Fic, Heterosexual Sex, Romance, mirroring, people over 60 having le sexuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:06:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 16,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kouw/pseuds/kouw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both Charles and Elsie worry about a lot, but mainly about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Getting back into the swing of things, suddenly makes me write things I've never written before - like Charles POV. I can't really find his voice though... Hope it's still readable!

1.  
When the night comes and she is in bed (her blankets pulled up to her chin and her legs pulled up to her chest) she worries. Slivers of thoughts about Thomas so bitter and lonely now Sarah O’Brien has left. About the Dowager who is getting frailer day by day, how it seems to affect Lady Mary most. She worries about the empty nursery in the Bates’s cottage.

Mostly she worries about him.

She sees how his step is getting that bit slower, she hears how his bones creak late at night when they go over the books one more time. How he peers at the numbers. They both need glasses, just to read - they tell themselves. When they sit together in church and he keeps up the book of hymns, she has to lean against his arm to see the words. 

This past winter they held onto each other, close, tight, as they navigated through the snow and frozen puddles. She rubbed his shoulders when they got back, her bare hands on his forearms to get warm, to drive the bitterness from his muscles before he had to go up to serve the family.

The family. The only one he’s ever known.   
The words had struck her harder than a slap. She had thought that by now they could call each other that, that they together were a family, a broken one, one that dealt with wayward children, with upset and self denial. To think he felt closer to them upstairs had stung. The words seemed to have had little hands that grabbed onto her heart and squeezed and she had almost lost the ability to breath when she had finally come to the sanctity of her lonely room.

She worries about him because the world they were raised in, are used to, is changing fast. Her girls want to wear colour on their lips and cheeks and she lets them in the weekends, because fighting it is futile. She knows she needs to pick her battles. Tries to help him navigate through his (a footman wanting to court the baker’s daughter or pretty dairymaids that stand waiting for them outside on sunny spring evenings after dinner, hallboys saving up for bicycles and cinema tickets).

He dozes off at night, his glass of port wine lowering into his lap and she has been fast enough, has always caught it, but she is getting older too. She fears her next birthday, his. She no longer knows what to buy him - contemplates those reading glasses for a moment, lets out a stifled chuckle. This next birthday will mark as the one most men stop working, but she knows he won’t.

The nights she was in this same bed, awake the whole night, thinking how maybe they could be together one day, that maybe he worried about her on the other side of the wall and that instead of worrying they could comfort each other. Nights she laid awake, fantasizing how his embrace might feel warm and how he would smell - she knows, it’s his shaving cream, his soap, pommade - how perhaps he might even have taken her to his bed, maybe would have worshipped her with his body.

 

2.  
When he wakes, he worries. About the wine delivery that should be coming in the afternoon, but was late the last two times. About Alfred who he is trying to teach all he knows, but is found more in the kitchens than polishing the silver. He worries about his Lordship feeling left out - he sees it, hears it, nothing much gets past him.

He worries about her the most.

He can hear her shuffling through her room in the middle of the night, it wakes him as surely as it would if she were right next to him in his bed. He pushes thoughts of her being so close away, pushes away the memory of the soft skin of her hand on his arm. He doesn’t want to think about these things, but he can’t stop and it makes him irritable, unstable.

He is worried because sometimes she gets distracted and doesn’t hear the bell, doesn’t hear when someone addresses her. He is certain it’s not because she is losing her hearing - she can hear a mouse tripling through the store cupboard, hears the gossip in the smallest of whispers between her maids.

He is worried because she has gotten too attached to her charges, that she is softer now. She goes out with Thomas when he smokes his cigarettes so he has someone to talk to now Miss O’Brien has left. Has Anna in her parlour for long half hours. She even speaks with Lady Mary on occasion without coming back filled with bitterness. 

He sees that she misses Miss O’Brien, he had never really noticed it before, but the pair shared a love of dark humor, of a bit of gossip, had a dislike for incompetence - though she always hid it better than Miss O’Brien. 

The winter was harsh on the pair of them, they had held onto each other on the short trips they had made - church, the village for errands on half days. Having her on his arm had felt good. Comfortable. He had wanted to hold her for a long time after they would come in again, had wanted to help her out of more than her coat and he knew he could never share these desirous thoughts with her.

He is worried because his birthday is coming up and Lady Mary and Mr Branson will ask him to take up retirement. He has been thinking about it for almost a year now. He feels he doesn’t have much of a choice. He knows they can’t truly afford him, or anyone in his place. He has enough put by, he has been promised a cottage on the grounds when he was first promoted to his current position. He doesn’t have to stay on.

Life is changing. Service is changing and he doesn’t want to fight anymore, even though he knows full well she fights half his battles for him. He is tired. His bones creak, his muscles protest. But he doesn’t want to leave her. Doesn’t want to think of a life without her close to him. Doesn’t want to be in bed without knowing she is in a comparable one, not two feet away.


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Mary worry about Charles, Elsie and themselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something new for me: other people's POV's - people I've never written before...

1.  
There is talk of him retiring this year and it fills him both with flying ambition and a sense of pure dread. Ambition because he will be made butler - obviously. It’s his dues. He’s been underbutler for a good while now, he’s been trained, he knows everything there is to know about being a butler. Dread because while he might know everything, he will have to be butler in a new era, with new standards, new challenges and he will have to blaze the trail, will have to do everything alone.

There is dread because if the butler goes, he is sure she will leave too. If she leaves, he has no-one in his corner, no-one to protect him, to tell them to listen to what he says. They - Alfred, Jimmy, any of the others - don’t respect him the way they do Mr Carson. He himself respects Mr Carson, even if he is difficult and has gone out of his way to get rid of him. Mr Carson has little respect for him. He acknowledges his skill, but as a man? No, there is nothing there.

She does respect him. Sees him as a whole, he thinks. She goes with him when he goes out to smoke sometimes. Says she needs the fresh air, but he knows better. He knows she tries to make him feel less excluded. She is mothering him in a way. Asks if he is well, if there is anything he needs and he always smiles, tells her he is fine, that there is nothing she can do for him and it is true - she cannot cannot change how everybody sees him.

He doesn’t ask her much. He still knows little about her life that isn’t Downton. He knows she has a sister, that her sister has a family, that they write. She lets small things slip sometimes - that her nephew’s wife had another baby, that her neck is tight from a draft she had been neglecting. She doesn’t know she talks about Mr Carson a lot. The Mr Carson that isn’t the butler. 

The man that he is in her eyes. An equal, a partner, someone she shares her worries with, her private thoughts. 

He watches them closely these days. Sees how he depends on her to help him in his dealings with the younger staff. It’s obvious he doesn’t understand the girls wanting to wear lipstick and rouge, doesn’t understand why Jimmy - his throat tightens, he doesn’t want to think of it, wants to think Jimmy just fights his urges, fights the way he was made differently from the others - wants to step out with the baker’s daughter.

She does and she guides the butler, helps him come to terms with the changing times. They are not so old, not so old they are starting to crumble, though he has noticed the sound of bone and muscle creaking in passing, the squinting at menus.

He doesn’t have the respect that Alfred gets from the butler and he fears this goes for Lady Mary, knows it goes for Tom Branson and he doesn’t quite know how to alter it and that makes him afraid for his position, for how things will be when both of them are gone. When the matriarchal advice ceases to come on dreary evenings covered in smoke. When the silent footsteps of the butler are no longer coming round the corner.

2.  
She’s talked about it with Tom and they both agreed on it, but it’s still not easy. She’s not one for sentimentality, she doesn’t hold on to the past so much as she does to tradition and that is a different thing to her. However she can’t decide if Carson is Downton’s past or tradition.   
He’s just always been there.

She finds it hard to imagine her home without him in it - he is part of it the way the carpets are, the furniture, the paintings. She remembers him having sweets in his coat pockets and handing them out to her and her sisters, remembers him smiling reassuringly during her first formal dinner. Recalls how he comforted her in the garden - even remembers what she was wearing.

He has been there for everything: scraped knees, angry governesses, her first season. She’s asked him to go with her when Richard was still in the picture - Mrs Hughes had shot daggers at her for days. Mrs Hughes who does not like her much. Who thinks Carson is too attached to Mary, thinks he dotes on her and she agrees: he does.

That is why it is hurts her to ask him if he wants to retire and she knows he will read it as being given notice, because that is exactly what it is. He is not old, not really, but she has seen him straighten himself up after carrying the tea tray to the drawing room, she’s heard him breathing after clearing away a shooting luncheon. She doesn’t want to let him go, but she doesn’t want to see him keel over during dinner either.

Once was quite enough.

Then Mrs Hughes had taken charge of the situation, as always really, had nursed Carson back to health, taken on his tasks. She couldn’t rely on Mrs Hughes to take over again. Not only because Mrs Hughes was also getting up there, but because she thought it quite possible she would go with Carson. 

She wasn’t blind. 

She saw the looks between them, the way they had held onto each other this winter, but way before that there were the helping hands, the quick questions. The way they stood together overlooking the lawn during the annual garden party or the great hall whenever there was a big to-do. Much closer than necessary, much too close to mean nothing. His hand on her lower back, her thankful smile as she looked up to him. 

All she wants is for Carson to be happy, to live the rest of his life joyfully, not in the service of anyone, but for once, a few years if they are all lucky, as an equal. Mrs Hughes is his equal, Mary will never deny it. She sighs, gets up from the sofa. 

Rings for Carson. Best get this over with.


	3. chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's with Lady Mary, she is downstairs. In the end, it's all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Charles and Elsie chapter again - but we've not yet come to the end! Hope you'll enjoy.

1\.   
Lady Mary has asked him to sit and he wanted to say he was fine, that he preferred to stand, Milady (and didn’t she know that, hasn’t she known that for long years now?), but the pointed look she gave him made him choose a seat across from her and carefully lower himself. 

He’s knees click, the soft chintz chairs are lower, softer, deeper than he is used to. He knows she has heard it, hopes he can get up later when he is dismissed.

He listens respectfully, hears only every other word because he worries that she is downstairs in her parlour, pouring over a ledger, a linen rota, notes from delivery boys. He saw the look on her face when the bell rang, when he sighed and pushed back his chair at the head of the table and he noticed how her hand hovered a bit, as if she wanted to touch him. But she didn’t. If she had, he’d be less nervous now.

He is nervous because he knows the speech that is coming from the young woman’s lips.

Valued. Part of Downton. Loyal.

Getting on. Cottage. Annuity. 

He nods at the right moments, tries to look neutral and he is a good butler, arguably the best in the county, so he succeeds while he thinks about that cottage, how she could help him choose curtains and furniture and he worries because how will he sleep if she is not three feet away from him, how he’ll get through the day when he knows she is in the attics, getting up early, smoothing over unpleasantries between her girls, who don’t all have her cheerful disposition first thing.

“Will you think about it, Carson?” Lady Mary asks and he gently raises himself from the chair, knowing it is the end of the conversation - of being talked at instead of with and he looks at the young lady who has taken on the responsibility of running the estate after the accident, whose life is a maze of shadows more than happiness and he says ‘yes’, that he will consider her offer very seriously, that he will let her know by the end of the week.

Asks if there is anything she wants, needs. Offers tea. She declines with a sad look.

For the first time he wonders if there will be more people who’ll miss him when he leaves, that he has been so focused on her (who he never names) that he has forgotten there are other people under this roof who feel him essential, or at least part of their lives. 

Lady Mary and her sisters - the baby who has left them a small replica, all bouncy brown curls and sweet disposition, the middle one who cannot find her purpose, the woman in front of him who remains too thin, her eyes glazed over - who has seen grow up, their parents who are only five years his junior, their grandmother whose body is frail and failing, but her tongue sharp, her mind fast. It’s his family, the only family he has ever known.

2.  
When the bell rang and he pushed back his chair, she had wanted to put her hand on his, to touch him, but she didn’t dare, knew all their eyes were on him. So she had tried to smile encouraging.

They all went back to their elevenses, their tea and slices of fresh bread slathered in butter and she thought how he would miss this, how he would miss sitting here with his staff, his footmen and hallboys, her maids, the valet. How he would miss overseeing them all (she would miss having him at her side, to back her up, to squabble with, to discuss her worries with, to help him ease his burdens). She knows he doesn’t see them as his family, that he doesn’t know what family is. He feels it’s them upstairs.

He is wrong.

He does all the things right by instinct. He fiercely believed in Mr Bates innocence, like he would believe his brother. He took Daisy’s arm to lead her to her wedding, like he would a fatherless niece. He teaches Alfred all the tricks of the trade like he would a son. He may not see it this way, but they are his family and they will all miss him when he won’t be there.

She’ll miss him.   
She wonders how she will sleep without his gentle snoring not three feet away, how she will get through the day without his kind words at breakfast when she has already scolded her girls for being sullen. She will miss him sharing the leftover wine, their talk before bed.

She drains her cup, gets up, making sure not to make any sound, hopes to slip away to her parlour, to maybe get on with some work, but she knows she won’t, knows she will think of him, worry about what they will offer him in retirement: a cottage, a place in the pew on Sunday, food sent from the kitchens and she knows he won’t like it, won’t like the hand outs and she moves through the hall alone (his voice is missing from the chatter around the table she has left, his footsteps are not behind her).

There is a knock not long after she’s shut the door, she’s not even sat down yet and she closes her eyes for a moment, thinks how she needs some time to herself, that she cannot deal with someone else’s problems right now, that her heart is breaking and that she needs to be able to piece it back together without the glue that’s been holding it tight for a long, long time and she needs solitude to do so. But she says ‘enter’, because it’s her job and her pain must wait, had better wait until he is back, until he tells her about his ‘word’ with Lady Mary.

Anna steps inside, closes the door behind her carefully, waits to be told to sit down and she does - the small figure in his place and she can feel her throat tighten. 

“He’ll be back soon.” The girl says. “It will be alright.”


	4. chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna and Alfred contemplate their superiors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have cried over writing Anna...   
> Hope you'll enjoy, don't hesitate to let me know how you like (or dislike) the story!

1\.   
They sit across from each other, the small table between them. The toaster is unplugged, not a crumb in sight and she knows that while they don’t see her do any work, Mrs Hughes was a maid once who swept floors, cleaned out grates, polished the crystals from the chandeliers. Her hands are soft now, there are ink stains on her fingers. Being Housekeeper is administration and checking up on maids, it’s tongue lashings and kindnesses. 

She has felt the soft hand on her shoulder, on her cheek. She has been on the receiving end of those tongue lashings (stepping out with a delivery boy when she was no more than seventeen and followers weren’t allowed was one of them and she was glad of the stern talking-to, without it she would likely not be curling up to Mr Bates at night).

They are close, understand each other well - they are much the same. So when Mr Carson was called up and Mrs Hughes watched him leave, it was very clear to Anna the Housekeeper was upset. The others hardly looked up, but she couldn’t just sit there with her mending. 

She had slipped into the parlour and taken a seat - where he normally sits, where they talk and drink tea and discuss matters of the house, perhaps of matters between the pair of them, (perhaps matters of the house are the matters between them, like parents speaking of their home and children: parts of a bigger whole) - and had said things would be alright.

After all: that was what the Housekeeper had always said to her. That things would be alright in the end, that focus and patience would see everything through. She had cried on a shoulder that was softer than expected, quiet words had been spoken, soft but unwavering and now with her patience wearing thin, she is there to listen, not to judge, to encourage only. Anna blushes when she thinks how Mrs Hughes has managed to let her and John have their free afternoons together.

She can easily imagine the conversation between the Housekeeper and the Butler. How she would have laid out the facts first, proposed her idea, how he would have opposed, told her it was improper to have the Lady’s Maid and the Valet away from the house at the same time. She would have told him that said employees were married, that they needed some time together. Would have put emphasis on it, thrown him a look until he’d understand. Then they would both have felt slightly uncomfortable, he would have looked away and then concluded that one afternoon a week would not be the end of the world.

They know exactly how to play the other, how to anger the other and how to comfort. They confide in each other, they maintain a united front, always. He feels she is too flexible with her girls, she thinks him to rigid with his boys and he tempers her enthusiasm and she energizes him on difficult days. Today will be difficult. Until he returns, she will sit in his chair and share the waiting. They drink tea in silence as the clock ticks away the minutes.

 

2.  
He is in the kitchen watching Mrs Patmore prepare a Charlotte Russe. He shouldn’t be there. He should be polishing the silver in the silver pantry while Jimmy wipes the champagne glasses - so everything is ready for the evening. But he had seen the look on Mr Carson’s face, had fleetingly seen the worry on Mrs Hughes’s and he just couldn’t do it. Polishing always left him thinking. Often about Daisy or about the latest flick he’d seen in town. About his future sometimes. He doesn’t really want to be a footman, he wants to be in a kitchen, train as a chef. Mrs Patmore had once said that the best cooks were men.

Until now he had stayed on because his aunt Sarah told him it was a good position and that there was safety in being footman in a large house like Downton. He had stayed because it was three decent meals a day, clothes on his back, a roof over his head. Clean sheets and someone to do his laundry. _(Mrs Hughes had shown him how to label his clothes, had taught him to darn his socks, had said ‘until you find someone to do it for you’ with a soft smile - he had found that she took care of Mr Carson’s socks, of all his mending, one evening when Jimmy had pestered him and he needed to blow off steam and he had knocked on her door. He had walked into a cosy, homely scene where Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes were sat across each other in the low chairs, tea steaming in cups, she was pulling needle and thread through the white fabric of a waistcoat while Mr Carson read out loud. He had changed his mind about whining about Jimmy, had made up an excuse, left them to it.)_  
He had stayed because he felt loyal to Mr Carson who was trying to teach him so much. He had tried to learn it all and he felt he had gotten on very well. First footman duties were shared between himself and Jimmy now and he felt appreciated. He didn’t think he would feel that way if Thomas was to be butler.

Being footman under Thomas’ direction would be very different. For one he didn’t trust Thomas and for another he couldn’t respect him. Not because of what he had witnessed - he told himself that, but he knew he was lying - but because of his aunt. 

Mrs Hughes told him that he needn’t worry about her, that Sarah O’Brien had her wits about her, a quick, cunning mind and enough put by to survive. She had likely gone to a friend, a Mr Lang who had worked at the house during the War. That things would be alright, that he best get back to work. He sighed, looked on as Mrs Patmore tied the ribbon around the pudding.

“What are you doin’ ‘ere?” Daisy asked suddenly.

“Nothin’. I’m just watchin’.” He answered, his cheeks reddening.

“Don’t you ‘ve work to do?”

“I suppose.” He’s better get back, start polishing. Mr Carson would be in a mood without him disobeying orders making things worse. He turned on his heel and left the kitchen.


	5. chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles tells about his talk with Lady Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff warning - there be fluff in this here chapter!

1.

He passes his pantry in favour of her sitting room, flinging the door open without knocking - as always; they don’t bother knocking these days, you don’t knock on doors in your home and that’s what she is: his home, he knows it now, feels it deeply - and is slightly startled at the sight of Anna in his chair.

“Thank you, Mrs Hughes.” Anna says, looking from her to him, smiling slightly. She moves to the door, passes him, turns.

“I’m certain you’ll figure it all out.”

The door closes behind her and he looks at Mrs Hughes, who is looking up at him from her seat, looking curious and worried and he sits down, reaches for the pot, touches it. Cold.

“I can fetch a new pot of tea if you want?” She asks and he shakes his head. 

“No.”

“So... how was it?” 

“Much as we expected. Lady Mary looked very uncomfortable, I didn’t like that much.”

“No... you wouldn’t...” 

He feels the corners of his mouth twitch. They know eachother well, as well as two people _can_ know the other and while she has come to understand Lady Mary better, she doesn’t see her as he does. 

“She asked me how I was. How I saw the future.”

He sees her swallow a few times, moisten her lips and how she leaves those lips slightly apart. He wonders what it would be like to kiss them, to thoroughly kiss them, not to feel them on his cheek when she congratulates him on his birthday.

“I told her the truth.”

She nods and he knows she understand better than she lets on, that he doesn’t need to explain all of it, that it’s just a question of time and courage and he will have both soon, because her cheeks flush prettily and her smile is suddenly shy.

Things will be different and he will worry about that, but he doesn’t have to worry about this, about what they have built together here and how it will last long after they’ve gone from Downton.

If she’ll go with him.

2.

“Thank you, Mrs Hughes. I’m sure you’ll figure it all out.” 

She wants to tell the girl not to be impertinent, but she’s out the door, into the hall, no doubt making her way to her husband, telling him how Mr Carson swept into the Housekeeper’s parlour without knocking, not seeing her, having only eyes for said Housekeeper.

He looks tired, out of sorts. He sits down in his chair, finds the teapot cold.

“I can fetch a new pot if you want.” She says knowing that sometimes a cup of tea can give strength, be comforting.

He declines. Of course he does, he doesn’t like making work for her. 

He doesn’t start giving her specifics about his talk upstairs, doesn’t give any indication of how it’s been, so she asks him. He tells her it was as he had expected, that Lady Mary - his favourite, he doesn’t deny it and she shakes her head over it - was uncomfortable and she thinks that it’s the least the young woman could be. 

They are all uncomfortable with losing him.

“She asked me how I was. How I saw the future.”

Her breath hitches.

“I told her the truth.”

The way he looks at her makes her heart beat faster and she feels her cheeks redden, looks away, feeling suddenly that he sees right through her, that she has been worried for him for weeks, that she has been caring for him for years and that he doesn’t want to be without that, like she doesn’t want to be without him.

Suddenly, it’s all there, the course of action clear.

She reaches out to him and he grabs her hand and holds it firmly.

They sit together like that for a long while, until they hear the bells calling for Anna and Mr Bates, the shuffling of feet in the corridor behind the closed door. She lets go reluctantly.

“Tonight we’ll talk about it.” He promises.


	6. chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their little talk and deciding to have a more thorough talk later, Charles and Elsie have dinner in the Servants' Hall

1.

He had always thought he would stay with the family till his dying breath. That they would have to pry the key to the wine cellar from his cold, stiff hands. That one day he would crumple on the stairs under the load of a tea tray.

He doesn’t feel sure about leaving in a month’s time. Doesn’t know if it is enough to instruct Thomas properly - the boy is well-trained, of course he is, but the butler’s book he has been keeping diligently was not supposed to get into the hands of a lying thief. He thinks of William, of Alfred, boys he thought would be better choices if their hearts had been in it. He remembers William preferring the stables, knows how Alfred hovers around the kitchen and it stings a bit, he doesn’t deny it. He wonders if Elsie - is she Elsie now? Now they have had their sit-down, held hands again? - feels the same way about Anna, about Ethel. Probably not, she is more practical, takes disappointment easier, lives with it more graciously.

She sits next to him, her knee pressed firmly against his thigh and it’s different but welcome. She has touched his leg before, nudged it in sitting down - they are seated so close together - and always apologised. Now she sat down quietly, glanced at him from the corner of her eye and moved so they were even closer. He is warm, there are thoughts running through his mind he doesn’t need during dinner, doesn’t want her to know about, he doesn’t want her to know that she excites him so.

He chews his food thoughtfully, but doesn’t taste much. He wonders what he’ll do when he is not longer answering bells, tallying books, writing menus for dinner parties. He imagines he’ll take long walks like he used to as a lad, that he might potter about the garden. He isn’t a gambling man nor a drinking man, though he enjoys his glass of wine in the evening, the occasional sherry or port.

Probably because he shares it with her.

He throws her a look and in that moment she turns her head to him and catches his eye. There is a tiny smile curling around her lips and she puts her fork on her plate, lets her hand slip under the table to squeeze his thigh. She looks up at his sharp intake of breath and blushes slightly.

She looks pretty slightly flushed. He’s always thought so. When he stumbles upon her during spring cleaning and she is ordering her girls about, stepping in here, there, everywhere and her cheeks are reddened and wisps of hair escape her careful coiffure, he’s always had to turn around, get away from her in fear of her seeing what she does to him. He shifts in his chair, hopes she doesn’t feel him stirring, but she does and she bites her lip, but doesn’t let go.

2.

‘Daunting, but not unwelcome.’ She thinks when she feels him stir not three inches from where her hand is on his thigh. She’s thought about doing this _move_ for years now, every time he silences the room, every time disaster has stricken. She has held onto him when Lady Sybil died, has held his hand when the news of Mr Matthew came in and not long before dinner, her table between them. Never has she touched him so intimately and suddenly she craves for more. The thought makes her blush.

The thought of how he’d look without his coat, waistcoat, starched shirt. She imagines how he would look in plain tweed, his cuffs undone. Wonders how he would smell when he’d come to her in the evening.

How he might raise the hem of her nightdress, his fingers slightly calloused from pottering about the garden sliding up her thigh... Her blush is spreading and she looks away from him, to the people gathered around the table: Thomas who is looking pale, frightened almost, Alfred tucking into his food as if nothing is happening, but not chatting to Jimmy or the younger maids. Anna who keeps throwing both Charles - is he Charles now? Now she is having these impure thoughts about him? - and her glances and sitting close to Mr Bates, too close but she won’t say anything about it. It’s her girl after all.

He is shifting, she knows he is getting uncomfortable. His stirrings are undeniable and she is feeling proud somehow that it is her who does this to him. Not one of the fine ladies upstairs, but her, the farm girl from Argyle who became the stern Housekeeper of a big manor house in the Yorkshire countryside.

She has seen him looking at her, seen him turn quickly to hide himself and it’s always filled her with a strange powerful feeling. Perhaps that is the thing she would miss most when he leaves. This feeling of belonging with him, for he sleeps on the other side of the wall and she hears him at night: the creaking of the bed, the ragged breathing, the whispering of her name. She’s felt herself react to it, has always managed to be quiet, much quieter than him.

If she goes with him, there won’t be the need to be quiet. There won’t be the need to stay away from each other.

3.

Something is brewing between them. Something she shouldn’t be aware of. A secret thing that she only shares with John plays out in front of her and it is mesmerising as well as making her turn away in confusion. She doesn’t really want to see Mrs Hughes’ flushed cheeks, Mr Carson swallowing hard.

She is uncomfortable with seeing the heads of the household this way.

She doesn’t want to think of people who are like parents to her doing that.


	7. chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is work to be done, so they leave the table, but not before she kisses him, which is unknowingly witnessed by Anna and then overheard by Edith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you don't get a descriptive first kiss, but this chapter might lead to more goodness... who knows... (I know and yes: more goodness on the way)over

1.  
They stay behind, Charles (she uses his first name now she knows what she does to him, who she is to him) lets Thomas be in charge. A taste of what’s to come. But there is work to be done, ledgers to tally, stock to be counted and she calmly raises up from her seat and leans over to kiss him. Like she has seen her mother do countless times when things were still good, before the shouting and the sound of heavy boots and she remembers those good times, times when there was laughter and happiness.

Kissing him like this - a spur of the moment thing - cannot leave him in doubt of her feelings for him. He feels the same way, it is in the way his lips push back, linger.

She is not just a woman who entices him, not someone he is comfortable with. They’ve been through war and garden parties - though don’t they sometimes prove to be a war in their own way? - and she knows, they both know:

They belong together.

Everything is going to be alright.

2.  
Seeing her lean over to him and kiss him like that, as if this has been common practice for years, makes Anna wonder if she has been wrong after all. Maybe the pair of them have had this thing between them for a long time. Much longer than this evening, but she has not felt the storm brewing before, has only seen longing glances, heard dismissive phrases.

The kiss seals it.

She cannot wait to tell John about it.  
It’s the best news they’ve had in months.

3.  
She doesn’t need a maid to help her change. She can pull the dress over her head carefully, hang it on the waiting hanger to air. She only wore it to dinner, it shan’t be soiled. Her hair is short and the curls only require a silk scarf to be kept in place during the night.

She has no trouble getting in her night gown.

Indeed, her trouble is that she can’t get anyone to take it off for her.

The sigh she heaves is to be heard all through the corridor. She doesn’t want to go back into the room. Mary and Mama are talking about the babies. About nannies and the responsibility that comes with motherhood. Rubbing her nose in failure - she feels the loss of Anthony dreadfully, but cannot speak of it - making her feel unworthy and unwanted. Mama perhaps is just making conversation, but between the delicate done up long hair and the mauve ensemble, Mary manages to throw her one smirk after the other, one barb after the other.

She has excused herself for a moment. No-one really paid any attention. Since they have been having their dinners ‘en famille’, everyone seems to flock together. Except for her. There is not really a place for daughters who get jilted at the altar and then try to find something to make of their lives.

The sound of voices waft up from the stairs. The melodic voice of Mrs Hughes, the soft rumbling of Carson. Carson who prefers Mary over her, had preferred Sybil over her. Mrs Hughes who doesn’t like Mary, who walked around with red-rimmed eyes when Sybil died. Who liked her too, who finds time for a kind word, who doesn’t walk away when she needs someone who will hear her.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

“How could I not be sure, you daft man.” The answer comes in the comforting lilt. The sound of late nights, curled up on a chair, nursing a cup of tea or hot chocolate. Listening to fairy tales and myths from the Highlands.

“You kiss me once and it’s daft man...”

Kiss? Mrs Hughes kissed Carson? She tilts her head, trying to hear more.

“I kissed you once. You kissed me back.”

“I did not.” A tone never to be heard in the drawing room, happiness so unlike the butler.

He is leaving soon. The house will be different without him. He is more part of the house than the furniture.

“Stand still... Here...” Then there are no voices, only the rustling of skirts, a contented sigh. The sound of a couple kissing and then breaking apart.

“You daft man...” The words are not what she means, Edith knows, even recalls it. “Someone might see us.”

“I don’t know if I’d mind.” He replies.


	8. chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kissing on top of the stairs can only lead to getting caught.

1.

They reach the top of the stairs, stand before the door that separates the men from the women. The door represents the values of the house: there is to be no fraternizing between the footmen and the maids.

As if footmen and maids are not too tired to do anything besides sleep late at night, when they finally get to see the inside of their shared rooms after a day of serving others. As if footmen and maids are not inventive enough in sculleries, unused state rooms and the vast grounds.

He’s never seen the maids’ rooms on the inside. He knows the lay out of Elsie’s - Elsie because she has kissed him and he has kissed her, has felt her warmth through the layers of cotton and taffeta - because it mirrors his. The window opposite the door, the bed on one side, the wardrobe on the other. He wonders if she has a small chair and a table with a mirror, like the ladies upstairs do, to do her hair as part of her morning ritual.

He has often thought about it, how she would rise after Ivy’s knock on the door, how she would push off her blankets and her night gown would have ridden up during the night. He guesses she has beautiful legs - years of endless stairs and walking miles of hallways - longs to see them. He wonders if she would pull her gown over her head, leaving her nude from the waist up...

A blush rises and she is so close to him, he cannot hide it from her. Can she hear his thoughts? She usually can, she usually knows all there is to know about everyone - from having heard, from being observant, from an intuition he lacks.

They stand at the top of the stairs and she looks up at him, questioning and he leans in, slowly, his eyes focused on her lips before they shut and his lips meet hers in an electric moment.

2.

He smells of shaving cream and silver polish, he tastes of tea. Her tongue curls around his and she forgets that she is on the top of the stairs in front of the door to their rooms and that someone will stumble upon them soon, that they have to be careful.

His arm is moving, his hand gliding from her back further down, gently squeezing her bum and it’s not unwelcome, not at all, it’s new and it’s strangely exciting. She is being pulled closer and her breathing is getting laboured as they kiss, their tongues dancing, lips hardly touching, her hands roaming the few bits of bare skin she can and it’s not enough.

She wants more, more of him, needs it almost. Heat is storming inside of her, her knickers riding up as she grinds against him, finding that he moves with her.

3.

Good heavens! is her first thought, quickly followed by ‘About time’ and ‘Couldn’t they not do this here, I want to go to bed’. She watches them from several steps lower as if she is watching the kiss unfold before her.

_Years_ they have been dancing around each other.

She wouldn’t say ‘pining’ but it was close. Longing looks and conversations that always came back to the other. “He’s a hopeless liar.” “Is she alright?”

She had thought they would fall in the other’s arms when the verdict from doctor Clarkson came, but she had run off to her room to change and resumed work immediately thereafter and he sang a lovesong in the silver pantry and never even stopped his polishing. It had been infuriating. The two of them are perfectly suited: he never backing down from her, she never afraid to say what she thinks of him and they agree on most things concerning the house and they enjoy squabbling over the things they can’t agree on and there has been comfort during hard times - Spanish Flu and endless cups of tea, the death of Lady Sybil and how they had held onto each other (she had seen it through bleary eyes on her way to her room, had wanted to have her cry in solitude).

It was a good thing they had finally found each other.

“Ahem.” She scrapes her throat loudly. “Don’t you two start setting a bad example, you’re as bad as Anna and Mr Bates!”

She laughs when the pair breaks apart and flush crimson as they struggle to open the door.

4.

They are inside now, his room to the left through another door, hers to the right and she doesn’t want him to go, doesn’t want to be alone, not now this fire has been lit inside her. He is to blame, it’s fully his fault. It’s his scent, his solid form, his love for her. It’s both their fault for not making a move sooner, years they may have missed out on and she doesn’t want to waste another minute.

“Don’t go...” Her voice is soft but steady. She reaches for him and he stands still before her, unyielding.

“I have to. We cannot do this here.” His sounds full of regret.

“Do what?” She asks and maybe it is a step too far, maybe she pushes him too hard, but her heart is beating fast and Beryl has gone to bed and the others won’t be up for half an hour and surely half an hour is long enough for... _that_.

“I want it to be good for you.” He daren’t look her in the eye and she steps closer, touches him lightly. Her honest, kind man.

“I cannot do it. It’s not right.” He adds and stalks away, leaving her in the hall, confused and unfulfilled.


	9. chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A partial recount of the night before Mrs Hughes has gone missing

1.

_knock knock_

“Mrs Hughes?”

“Mrs Hughes? It’s seven o’clock...”

There is no response, unlike every other morning, when she is being greeted with a quiet ‘Thank you, Ivy’. She knocks again.

“Mrs Hughes? Are you alright?”

Still no answer comes and she turns quickly, not knowing who to alert. Daisy is downstairs preparing breakfast for the servants, Anna no longer lives with them. She walks the length of the hall up and down twice before making up her mind.

_knock knock_

“Mrs Patmore? Mrs Patmore! There’s something wrong with Mrs Hughes.”

2.

“Mrs Hughes?”

She knocks on the door, loud, quickly.

“Elsie?” She waits. “Elsie?” Nothing. “I’m coming in.”

She opens the door and is welcomed by a neatly made bed. The curtains are drawn and a bit of fresh air comes in through the open window. In all her years she has not seen Elsie change her morning routine - save the few mornings she dealt with the aftermath of funerals and weddings. But they have had neither in a while and nothing has been out of the ordinary for weeks.

Except of course...

“Ivy, you go downstairs, get the breakfast for upstairs started and do as Daisy tells you. I’ll take care of this.”

If she finds Elsie Hughes in bed with Charles Carson... She doesn’t know how to end that sentence. Doesn’t truly want to know what happened the night before.

3.

The bed isn’t wide enough for two, not by a long shot. He is tall and broad and she is no ingenue, no slip of a girl. They are working people, solid, present. He had been startled by the knock on his door in the middle of the night. He couldn’t sleep after everything that happened over the course of the evening.

Lady Mary asking him to retire, Elsie (she is definitely ‘Elsie’, now he _knows_ her) sitting so close to him at the table, her leaning over him to kiss him so casually - he recalls his own father kissing his mother in that easy fashion before leaving for the stables in the morning - the way they had talked on their way upstairs. Their heated kisses on those same stairs directly after. Mrs Patmore catching them at it. Telling Elsie he could not go on with it - because of he is honour, her virtue.

In the end it didn’t matter.

She came to him in the night, her hair down (it wasn’t the first time he has seen her in the night, but she had her hair in a thick plaid and her robe wrapped around her those other times), her feet bare under the hem of her night dress and she had stepped over the threshold, closed the door and she had not spoken.

She was lovely in the dark, her features highlighted by the little bit of light reflected off the moon. The white nightgown had covered her completely, hiding anything enticing, but when she took a few steps, he could see the outline of her leg as it stepped forward, the curve of her hip. As she came closer he saw how the fabric laid around her breasts.

He had to swallow a few times, had to gather himself together before he could do anything. She had been by the bed in mere moments and waited for him to make a move and he had gotten up, had put his arms around her, searched for her lips with his own. She had allowed him to run his hand along her side, feeling the dip of her middle, the side of her breast. She had silently spurred him on, had broken his kiss to plant her lips delicately along his jaw and he had nipped at her neck after that.

She smelled incredible - lemons and lavender, a touch of starch. Her hair was luscious between his fingers and he had been unable to control his body, feeling himself harden with surprising speed - something he had not felt since the last spring cleaning when she had worn a different dress that had clung to her form.

Gently she had pushed him back onto the bed, the covers partially under him and she had raised her gown over her legs and straddled him. He had never thought... but he stopped thinking altogether when she pressed herself against him, had taken his hand and had pushed it down her gown.


	10. chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A partial retelling of the night and people are starting to notice Mrs Hughes is missing

1.  
She is draped over him, the bed is not wide enough for a strong, big man and a lass from a farm in the Highlands. His heart is beating under her ear, his arm holds her tightly, preventing her from falling on the floor. She hasn’t slept much, she doesn’t think. She is uneasy, daren’t move for fear of waking him. 

He has had a tiring night.

She still doesn’t know what had possessed her to straddle him like that, to take hold of his hand and place it on her breast, while his other hand was on her bottom. She was wearing nothing but her nightgown. He had been shocked, she could see it in his eyes. He was in his pyjamas - top and bottom, vest and shorts and she had kissed him, nipped at his skin, had pushed against his hands wantonly as she undid the buttons, untied the string.

His hands leaving her body had been a break in her longing, helped her remember they had to be careful, quiet. He had shrugged off the pyjama top, had quickly pulled his vest over his head and she had been confronted with a wide chest, a smattering of grey and white chesthair, curling under her fingers.

She had wriggled out of her gown, revealing herself to him - not without trepidation. She was not a young, willowy maid. She was a substantial Housekeeper, her body was being kept in shape by endless stairs and a steel boned corset. 

Her worries had been needless.

His touch was so reverent, unlike any touch she had ever felt. He palmed her bottom, his other hand closing around her breast - the offending one, the one who almost left her hopeless, but was giving her life now, was sparking sensations she could never recreate on her own, doesn’t want to ever, only wants the pad of his thumb running over her nipple in the future. She wanted to hold him close, to breathe him in, to share this fire he is kindling inside her and she scooted a little closer, her sex touching his, his pyjamas a barrier that would be gone soon.

It had been a long time, longer than Downton, since she had laid with a man and his touches - as reverent as they were - were not as unskilled as those of a man unused to the act.

She knew it had been a long time for him too when she reached for him between them and he gripped her wrist, suddenly, telling her not to, for it might be over too soon, too quickly and she had put her cheek against his and had whispered in his ear that there would be no greater pleasure than to take it slow.

2.  
She dressed quickly and made her way to the door and checked it. 

It was unlocked. 

Oh, but she didn’t like what that was telling her at all.

First room on the left was Mr Carson’s. She looked down the hall - empty - and knocked once, twice, three times and softly called: “Mr Carson? Mr Carson, it’s Mrs Patmore?”

There was no answer. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

To find another empty room with a perfectly made bed.

A bit too perfectly to have been done by the man himself.

Beryl shook her head and went downstairs.  
A nice, hot cuppa would do her good.

3.  
“Has anyone seen Mrs Hughes?” Jimmy asked. The table was full of food, the whole staff was sitting around it, but the Butler and Housekeeper were nowhere to be found.

“What’s it to you?” Thomas snarled.

Anna looked at him, her head cocked to the side. 

“Jimmy is just inquiring, Mr Barrow, there is no need to be so unpleasant.” 

“I don’t think anyone as seen either of them, Ivy noticed Mrs Hughes missing and according to Mrs Patmore, Mr Carson is not around either.” Daisy rambled as she brought in a plate of scambled eggs.

“How would Mrs Patmore know that?” Alfred piped up.

“I don’t know, do I?” Daisy shrugged and went back to the kitchen, leaving her information to stew amongst the other staff.

“What are we supposed to do?” One of the new maids asked no-one in particular.

“What we always do. We get on with our work.” Mr Bates said, calmly, with authority. Nobody questioned it. Instead they started taking toast from platters and pouring tea. Thomas threw Mr Bates a dirty look, but was met with a steely gaze from his opponent. If Mr Carson was indeed to leave, it would be a battle between the pair of them and neither wants to lose. 

It will keep both of them up during the night the coming weeks, until one of them is called to the Drawing Room to hear who Lady Mary has chosen. Until then, they must work, show their good will and skills. 

It will not be an easy task for Lady Mary to decide who will follow in Charles Carson’s footsteps.


	11. chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out where Mrs Hughes is and what happened during the night

1.

She can feel him brushing her hair from her neck, his fingers getting tangled in it as he kissed her deeply, then lifting her off his lap, struggling to rid himself of his pyjama bottoms and shorts and she had been so aroused, the sight of him had not bothered her at all. Indeed, it had spurred her on more. She had pushed him back on the bed and had curled in close, pulling the covers over the both of them and had pressed herself against him, her breast against his side - his skin was so smooth there, smooth and pale and he smelled so good...

He had kneaded her bottom with one hand and had reached over, kissing her slow and with so much feeling, it almost left her breathless. She had run her fingers through his hair, the curl falling over his forehead was both unusual and familiar and his free hand was stroking her leg, wandering to the inside of her thigh and she had opened her legs for him, had arched under his touch.

He was more substantial than she had thought initially, but she wasn’t worried though it had been a long time. Such a very long time since anyone had touch her, had wanted her in this way and especially the want being mutual. She had briefly thought of how there had been boys hoisting up her skirt behind the barn, taking her against the wall. How there had been Joe, who was unsure, uneasy and never got very far. She thinks of the two or three footmen when she was young and foolish, but thankfully ambitious. She may not be a woman of the world, perhaps, but she is not an innocent either.

He had whispered in her ear, softly asked if she was sure, if she was quite certain and she had nodded, had kissed him, smiled even, had pulled up her knees to cradle him and he slowly, slowly sank into her and stilled, holding her and she knew he was close to crying and she let him be, let him adjust as much as she needed to.

It had been so good, so right and honest and everything she had always thought it could be.

_ahem_

She is being dragged from her daydream and she repeats the words with hidden excitement. Listens to him, saying the words right back. They sign their names and it is all done. There is no time for a kiss to seal it all, but it doesn’t matter, she can still feel his lips on hers.

2.

She was all smooth skin and supple flesh and strong muscles under his fingers. She was warm and she smelled so good and he worried about her, about the pair of them doing this. It wasn’t right, he wasn’t ready - but he knew that was a lie. He had been ready for years and now it was finally here and he was afraid it wouldn’t be good for her, that she might be frightened of him, of this, but he needn’t have worried and he knew that from the moment she had first straddled his legs, had put his hand on her breast - a firm but soft roundness that fills his hand, his thumb running over a peaked nipple.

He had worried he wouldn’t remember how, but she made it so easy. Her long hair falling in waves over her shoulders and back, the way she had pulled her gown over her head. It had not taken much to get ready for her.

Without hesitation she had helped him with his bottoms and shorts, had pushed him into bed and had laid there next to him, touching him, pushing herself against him and she had been so close, closer even than in a dream and he had been unable to resist.

Her mouth was warm and she was so responsive. She had wriggled slightly as he had touched her there and she was so ready for him too, his breath had hitched. She had widened her legs, had squeezed him with her knees and he had finally - gods, finally, after years of imagining, of watching her, of depraved thoughts of her as he took his bath, as he took himself in hand late at night because he couldn’t take anymore - come home.

They had to be quiet and the build up had been ferocious. His promises of wanting to give her pleasure had been genuine and he hoped she was not in pain. He had stared at her, she had been beautiful under his touch, her back arched to meet his thrusts, her breasts moving with the way they moved, her lips slightly parted and moist from their kisses.

Afterwards - still panting, still trying to find the firmness of the real world - he had asked her what they were supposed to do. He had not thought this was a possibility, that she had wanted him in this way and she had smiled sweetly and raised an eyebrow and had told him that he could always ask her to marry him.

And he had done exactly that.

He had not expected to be in Ripon before eight thirty with his birth certificate, wearing his Sunday best, signing his heart over to the beautiful woman who had been his life for over twenty years.

3.

“Anna! Oh... I thought I rang for Mrs Hughes?”

“I know, Milady, but Mrs Hughes is... erm... elsewhere occupied. If there is anything I can do?” Anna is every inch efficiency and she has been with the family so long, she dares to push that bit further than any of the other maids.

After all, she isn’t a housemaid anymore. She is a Lady’s Maid and she has earned it by hard work and diligence, but she was trained by Mrs Hughes and she knows how to deal with most household problems that might come up.

“How is Mrs Hughes ‘elsewhere occupied’?”

“I really can’t say, Milady, but if you care to discuss your matter with me, I will make sure it will be taken care of.” She tries again. She doesn’t like it, doesn’t like covering for others - she used to do it for Gwen, who had been so sweet natured and smart and who had almost felt like a sister - she often ended up in trouble herself for helping out others.

“I just wanted to make sure that Mrs Patmore knows there will be one more plate for tonight’s dinner, Mrs Crawley is coming. She is very lonely, alone in that big house with just a maid.”

A maid of all work, treated better than most, but still Anna wouldn’t fancy her job. Cooking and cleaning and dressing, all of it for one person to handle.

Mrs Hughes had gone over to train the girl and later Mrs Patmore had gone up a few times for a few cooking lessons.

“Yes, Milady. I’ll see to it now.”

Maybe Mrs Patmore has an idea of where Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson may be.


	12. chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna and Mrs Patmore discuss their superiors over tea, Charles worries about all the thing on their way home from Ripon

1.  
“No, Ivy woke me and that’s when I saw her bed had not been slept in.”

Anna and Mrs Patmore are sitting in the Servants’ Hall, sipping cups of tea, nibbling on florentines. Everyone is carrying out duties and tasks - the maids have been shooed upstairs to air the rooms, change the linens, the boys are polishing silver cutlery and crystal glasses and putting the dining room in order. Mr Bates is with Lord Grantham, Thomas is supervising the boys.

Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson are still missing.

“It’s not like them to leave us to fend for ourselves, though, is it?”

“I cannot think of a single time this has happened before.” Mrs Patmore stares at the door, looking like she is willing them to come through it.

“So unlike them to not even leave a note...”

“There was nothing in Mrs Hughes’ room and nothing in Mr Carson’s and I have looked in the parlour and the pantry and it’s all been as if they’ve not been there at all.”

“How do you know there was nothing in Mr Carson’s room?” Anna picks up her cup, trying to look innocent.

“Because that is the first place I checked.” If it were possible, Anna would say Mrs Patmore’s smirk was joyous.

“What made you check his room, then?”

Mrs Patmore leans in a bit and Anna follows.

“I caught them kissing on the stairs...” She says in a stage whisper.

“They never!” Anna exclaims.

“Not before time...”

Anna agrees. It had been a long time coming and recalls the comfortable little kiss she had witnessed in the Servants’ Hall.

2.  
The bus is nearly empty and he takes advantage of it. His arm is around her shoulders and she leans against him, looking at her ring - it was his mothers and slightly too large for Elsie, who is a might smaller than his mother had been, stout and tall and strong. He had snatched it quickly before they left, not wanting to leave the registry office with a bare finger. She had surprised him by asking if he had his birth certificate, answering that he had indeed, then had shocked him by saying they could go into Ripon, early and be back for elevenses.

It had made perfect sense.

Part of him worries that it’s the afterglow.

A bigger part of him worries what they will say when they get back to Downton. They have left without even leaving a note. She has said that it will be a good test for all of them, since they’ll have to get used to it before long.

He hopes the boys (he won’t admit to it, but they are his boys, even young cocky Jimmy, even ambitious Thomas) have gone about their day like it’s any other. He hopes her girls (she doesn’t admit to it either, though Anna is definitely her girl, as is Daisy in a way) have carried out their duties.

He worries about telling Lord Grantham.  
He worries about what Lady Mary will say.

3.  
He is the first to see them coming in. He has been polishing his Lordship’s shoes. A minor task, always best done in the afternoon when he is not busy. He enjoys it, it allows him to let his mind wander.

Normally he thinks about Anna, how good and kind and beautiful she is. How he loves how she puts her tiny hand in his big paw when they walk home at night. How she gives his life meaning and direction. How he hopes that they have just not been lucky so far, that it’s nothing serious, that her wish will be granted soon. He can feel the tension building each month, navigates through a labyrinth of comforting and keeping his distance at the outcome of things.

Maybe, if Anna tells him of the good news they long for, they can move away from Downton. They have enough put by to start that inn they talked about before the war. The door creaks just as he is starting to add and subtract and making lists of pros and cons.

“Ah... there you are.” He says and he notices how the pair startle.

“Mr Carson.” He nods, but doesn’t get up, his leg has been playing up, Mr Carson knows, has inquired after it a few times.

“Mrs Hughes.” He smiles at her and she shakes her head.

“No, Mr Bates...” She starts, but Mr Carson scrapes his throat loudly and she looks at him. Reaches up, touches his cheek.

“It’s Mr Bates, Charles, surely you trust him.”

He sees the ring sparkle in the faint light.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul, but if you don’t want people to know, you’d better take that ring off and come up with a good story to tell the staff, because you have been the talk of Downton all morning.”

“I think we’d better discuss this in private, if you don’t mind, Mr Bates.” It’s not a question and the Butler guides the Housekeeper through the hall, into the corridor and quickly into her parlour.

If this wasn’t an interesting development, John Bates didn’t know what would be.


	13. chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentimental, fluffy stuff. Because it's needed.

1.

He is looking so worried. He is making this much bigger than it is, she knows it, knows him. She is taking off her hat, puts it on the desk, shrugs off her coat, nods to him, urging him to do the same.

She likes him in his plain coat and hat, it makes him look less like a butler, more like a man. Her _man_. Her husband. She cannot stifle a giggle and smiles at him, steps closer, closer, fixes his tie, smoothes out the few wrinkles in his jacket and shirt. He feels warm under her hands and it’s a liberating feeling she can now touch him, can kiss him whenever she likes without feeling the impropriety so deeply.

If she had known the depth of his feelings for her, she would have jumped to the chance so much sooner, when her body and mind were still supple and firm. They might have had... but she cuts off the thought, knows it is dangerous to dwell on the past, that it is easy to get tangled in a web of regrets and ‘what if’s’ and that they are to move forward and that they can - a cottage and lying in, no sides-to-middle sheets and no-one to tend on except the other.

She raises herself up, kisses him, once, twice, once more and his hands are resting on her hips and he holds her close, his nose in her hair, her cheek pressed against his shoulder and it’s comfort and ease and home.

2.

They may be quick and they may be quiet - years of service turn you into expert silent intruders - but they are not so fast nor so quiet they are unnoticed. A tiny smile curls around the girl’s mouth. She’s been mending hems and stockings for almost an hour, her face towards the corridor and she has seen them slip into the parlour.

It’s nearly ten thirty, time for the pair of them to confer with upstairs about plans and menus and other worries that have been ironed out for years but are part of the routine, of the tradition. In half an hour everyone will be around the table for a cup of tea and a slice of bread.

She contemplates what to do for a minute, then gets up to put away her things.

3.

“Mrs Hughes?”

He doesn’t want to let her go. He wants to hold on to her forever, until everything has sorted itself out. For once he doesn’t want to be the one who had to fix everything, doesn’t want to be the one who has to talk and negotiate. He just wants to stand here with his soft, warm, kind _wife_ against his chest and her arms around his waist.

Of course she pushes off from him a bit, shrugs.

“Nothing ever gets unnoticed. We should know. We trained them.” She takes his hand, squeezes it.

“What is it, Anna?”

The door opens and the girl glides inside.

A slip of a girl with a happy smile and the smallest hands he has ever seen on a grown woman - and he is startled, because it is the first time he thinks of her as ‘grown woman’, not just a girl of fifteen who came to them on a bright autumn day, ready to take on anything.

She had always been such a hard worker, always a kind word for anyone. He was proud of her, though he had been a bit put out by her marrying Mr Bates. Marriage between servants, it was not the way of Downton - though he knew of houses where it was common to employ married couples.

He had written a befriended butler about it. His wife was cook in the same house and Charles wondered how things were set up. The answer had been very satisfying, though he had been taken aback a bit when the other butler wrote so candidly about babies and children.

He had been worried that Anna would come to Elsie with news of such developments, but so far it had been quiet and he was reluctantly relieved by that, for he had no idea how he would have to deal with that. The days of babies was long behind him, he had thought, but now there was little Sybil upstairs and the new heir and he cooed over them, comforted the little tykes when nanny was out and as Anna - their Anna, their girl - stands before them, looking pleased and giddy (she must have seen the ring, Elsie had not taken it off yet) he can imagine such things for himself, if he had plucked up courage earlier, when he had first felt it, when he was still a footman and Elsie was still a maid and they could have had...

But he silences his thoughts, because he does have that. He may not have bounced any of them on his knee and he may not have been welcomed home with enthused calls of ‘Dad!’, but he has his family here and it’s a revelation.

It’s not upstairs that is his family.

It’s right here. Under his nose.


	14. chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody is ill at ease, especially now they are being called in to listen to Mr Carson's announcement

1.

“Will you come into the Servants’ Hall, all of you? Mr Carson has something to say.” A young hallboy pops into her kitchen - well, not hers, but she is getting a bit of credit these days and she is getting more responsibility. She often thinks about Mr Mason’s offer. Has decided if Thomas is going to be the new butler, she’s off. She doesn’t need two people shouting at her, at least when it’s Mrs Patmore it comes with a dose of affection.

She wipes her hands, calls Ivy and they follow Mrs Patmore into the Servants’ Hall where the others are already tucking into their bread- the loaves she has been kneading when they were just coming down, bleary eyed and still warm from sleep. Usually Mrs Hughes pops into the kitchen, saying good morning, giving Ivy and her some attention before she starts her day. Today she didn’t come. She doesn’t like it when her routine changes, but she likes the thought of Downton without Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes even less.

Mr Carson had held her arm on the way to William, had given her to be wed and had steadied her, all caring like. Mrs Hughes had smiled encouragingly. Mrs Patmore had wiped away a tear even and it had been over before it even began and she had been so sad and confused by all of it. She had hardly even kissed William.

There was this rumour going round that Mrs Hughes had kissed Mr Carson.

She didn’t know if it was true or not, but to her it made perfect sense.

It’s quite alright for parents to kiss each other and while they are not that, not entirely, it’s as close as she’ll ever get to that kind of belonging. Mr Mason is good and kind and he is willing to teach her all he knows and he loves her because he loved William, but Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore - they know her and that is different.

That is family.

2.

Has Lady Mary made her choice already? It was only yesterday when she had called Carson in, when they found out that the old man was retiring. The only one not shocked, not nervous had been Mrs Hughes.

She had probably been consulted. He should not be jealous of that, not of her. The woman is the only one in the room who is kind to him, cares without wanting anything in return. Anna had shown him the same kindness when Lady Sybil died, but now her husband’s promotion is on the line and he doesn’t blame her for being distant. He just wishes he had someone in his corner and he had hoped it would be Mrs Hughes, but she is not.

She is preoccupied.

She sits next to him as always - Mr Carson at the head of the table, always a little bit too close to her to be appropriate but no-one ever says anything about it - her hands under the table and he guesses she is wringing them in that telling way. An annoying habit, but one he has grown accustomed to. He’s become fond of her. Her unshocked face when he told her everything (how he was and what he had done to Jimmy and how it was all a mess he didn’t know a way out off) and the way she had stood up for him - he knew she had, it was written all over old Carson’s face - which was more than his own mother had ever done for him.

If Lady Mary has chosen Bates, he can ask her to convince the old man to write him a good reference. He might do it this time, it’s been months since the incident. He can’t take orders from Bates and with a reference he won’t have to starve, won’t have to work in a mind numbing factory in the noise and the dirt. He is good at what he does, has worked hard for it and he gives both Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes credit: they have shaped and molded him in ways no-one else could have done.

It won’t be easy to leave his home if he has to go.

3.

They are all looking at him and he doesn’t know how to say it. Finds he hasn’t the words and it’s making him nervous. His stomach is starting to churn. He knows it was the right thing to do, but he worries how they’ll react to the news. He tries not to think of the jokes the boys will make, the sniggers of the girls that will undoubtedly come.

Elsie is wringing her hands in her lap. She is uneasy as well.

4.

Where the blazes is Carson? And Mrs Hughes for that matter. He has rung for them minutes ago and there is no sign of them. Normally they are in the Drawing Room at ten thirty and they all discuss matters of the house and after that he feels like things are being managed well between Carson and himself, Cora knows Mrs Hughes will do whatever is needed and they go back to what they were doing and Mrs Hughes and Carson go downstairs to inform the rest of the staff.

This had been their routine for over twenty years and he is disturbed that it’s being altered today. Cora seems unaware of it, pricking away at her blasted needlepoint - the same work she’s been slaving over for the past seven years.

“Where the devil are they?” He exclaims as he watches the grounds from the window.

“Maybe there is a calamity downstairs. You know how they would never trouble us with that.” She argues in their favour.

He nods. Knows that if there is an emergency, they will come to know it when it’s resolved. Not before.


	15. chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Books go missing, Mrs Hughes relives the announcement to the staff and Mr Carson is being called up to speak with Lady Mary

1.

She couldn’t find it anywhere. She had ordered it through work and it had come in the day before - a small package in brown paper. No-one had commented on it, which for once was a blessing. The book was scandalous - or so she’d heard. The sequel to another rather improper book and she was eager to get started on it. She enjoyed DH Lawrence writing. The style pulled her in, the themes of his work seemed both so near and so far to her.

She had them all in her room, not in the library - the books both Papa and Granny wouldn’t want her to read. Everyone had always been so accustomed to Sybil being the rebel, they never even thought of Edith - plain, unwanted, middle daughter - as doing something naughty.

She had the communist manifesto in here - a gift from Tom when he found out her penchant for banned books, he had happened to open a package by mistake, finding in ‘The Rainbow’ in it, which he had given back to her with a wink and the promise never to tell - Frankenstein, Candide, Fanny Hill...

Never had one of the books gone missing as far as she knew. She knew they were dusted, but none was ever placed back differently. Or...

She stood before the row of books and checked them. She hadn’t alphabetised them - there were too few really, but they stood in order she had acquired them. So ‘Frankenstein’ should be the first book in the row.

But it wasn’t.

Who could have taken it? And did the same person have ‘Women in Love’ now?

2.

It had been an eventful day. To say the least. The morning after a very fateful night before (her thighs were sore, her breasts covered in lovebites), running off to Ripon - all so unlike them, they are normally planners, have everything worked out in minute detail - coming home and being found out first by Mr Bates and then by Anna.

She was sure Charles would have a heart attack as he stood at the head of the table, addressing all of the staff and being unable the find the words, to get the announcement out there. She simply couldn’t watch it, had gotten up as well, had grabbed his hand. When he turned to her with that smile, she had just smiled back and he had blurted it out.

“I’m sorry we left you to fend for yourselves this morning...” He had started and scraped his throat, tightening his grip on her hand. “But Mrs Hughes and I had some urgent business to attend to.” She had shaken her head.

“Not Mrs Hughes, Mr Carson...”

It had seemed as if all of the staff held their breath.

“No... Not anymore.” And he had leaned in and had kissed her, kissed her in front of everyone, as if that was the kiss that sealed the deal, like it would have if there were married in church.

She had been scared to look around the room, but there was no need. Mrs Patmore had picked up her mug in celebratory fashion and had pronounced a loud ‘and about time too!’, the rest of the staff broke out in chatter, in laughter. Thomas extended his hand to her, reluctantly to Charles and she had been glad to see him take it without hesitation. Anna had come around the table for a quick embrace, Daisy too. The boys all gathered, shaking hands with Charles and suddenly there was leftover pie and pound cake on the table, the order from Mrs Patmore: “Ivy, whip up some cream, quickly girl.”

She wasn’t certain if it was all happening, the sudden happiness that surrounded her, a welcome feeling of belonging enveloping her. Mr Bates picked up the cake, put it in from of the the pair of them, telling them to cut it and they had and shared.

The morning had been good.

Very good.

The evening however, could have gone better.

She sighed deeply, gave her tea a final stir and turned the page of the book she had picked up in Lady Edith’s room. The girl had a knack for finding books that were uncommon, on the fringe of decent. If she were quick about it, Lady Edith would never know it had been missing from her room. She might manage more than half of it tonight. She didn’t expect Charles to be back with her anytime soon.

3.

Father had congratulated him at dinner. Carson had been pouring wine as always and he didn’t even tremble. Mother had almost gushed, had asked to pass on her congratulations and that she would see Mrs Hughes - oh! Carson! - in the morning. Edith had looked so smug and Tom had just smiled, had also congratulated Carson.

She had asked to see him after dinner in the Library.

She was very much put out.

When he finally came, she had asked him to sit and he had taken a seat - which she had not expected. She had told him she was disappointed, that she didn’t understand any of it. Why had he not consulted the family before making such a rash decision?

He had looked her in the eye and asked her how she knew it was a rash decision.

It had made her blush, had made her so annoyed with Edith who had seen it before her.

“But Carson, really, it is very inconsiderate. Taking Mrs Hughes with you when you leave - how are we supposed to manage?”

He had sighed.

“I’m certain Mrs Hughes would be happy to help the new housekeeper settle, Milady.”

She had smiled a bit at that. That he called her Mrs Hughes still and then thought he would. He was a man of tradition. Which was why she didn’t understand it at all.

“But... will you be happy, Carson. I mean... I understand you would think you might get lonely being all by yourself in the cottage...” He had just smiled.

“It’s not a big one, it only has one bedroom.” She had brought up and he had looked at his shoes, seemed unable to meet her eyes and she had flushed crimson.

“Alright, Carson. If you’re sure. Congratulations.” She had held out her hand and he had taken it, tenderly.

“Very sure. Like you said, Milady: times are changing.” He had let go of her hand.

“Will you help me make a choice, tell me what to do?” She had implored.

“No. But I will tell you that Thomas is better trained and that Mr Bates is better loved. I will tell you that I think Thomas would be outstanding in the technical sense and that Mr Bates will find it a difficult job to manage with his leg. I will tell you that if Mr Bates comes with an almost fully trained Housekeeper, but that Thomas will be able to work amicably with a new Housekeeper, no matter who you’ll choose.”

“I’d say that was help.” She smiled sadly

“I’ll always be around to help, Milady.” He had answered, and left the room.

She had watched him leave and sat in the dark room, contemplating what had just happened and she found that she could not be upset or disappointed with him anymore. After all he had indeed always been there for her. He had earned his piece of happiness.


	16. chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leading up to the wedding night

1.

She had been afraid of what the young ones might say, had prepared to stifle them with one of her patent stares if needed. But it’s gone past eleven and they have all gone up, wishing her well on their way, little Daisy even giving her an awkward last embrace.

She’s sent both Mr Bates and Anna home, the poor girl looked dead on her feet. She had shaken Mr Bates hand a last time, had held Anna in her arms - the girl is so slight, she is losing weight over her worries, which worries her in turn - and locked up after them. Lady Mary can dress herself for a change, after all, Lady Edith does it every night and the world doesn’t come to an end.

A cup of tea to her right, the book on the table and she turns the pages, reads quickly. It’s the sequel to the other book she has already read and it is at least as scandalous, but it is also liberating, freeing her from a certain way of thinking. She had thought that maybe giving herself the way she had, last night, had been wrong, but it wasn’t. It had been good and satisfying. It had felt as if she was finally coming home after a very long journey.

His touch had stilled a craving, but had given her a hunger for more. While the children - oh of course they are children, they are all young and their lives are all ahead of them, between promised farms and butler’s positions and chances of babies - were still discussing the marriage of the butler and housekeeper, she had been going over the events of the night before.

Firm, but gentle hands running over her spine, cupping her bottom. His lips on her cheek, jaw, collarbone. Tongue tracing the outline of a nipple, gentle fingers probing between her folds... She had felt her cheeks flush, a familiar tightening in her lower belly, a moistness soaking her knickers.

He is with Lady Mary still. He’s been up there for over half an hour and she doesn’t like it. Worries that perhaps he will be dismissed, that the promise of a cottage was only if he followed the unwritten rules of the Crawley family.

Though Anna broke those rules and she is living in a cottage.

Finally, after three cups of tea and nearly half the book, she hears his familiar footfall on the stairs and she puts the book to the side, clears away the tea things. She opens her door before he can, falls into his arms.

“Are you alright?” She asks, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Yes, I’m fine. You?” He doesn’t deliberately misunderstand her, she knows this, but it is frustrating sometimes.

“What did she say? Are we both sacked?”

“Of course not.” He scoffs.

“That’s good...” She runs her fingers over his cheek. A stubble is just starting to form and she thinks how that will burn if they’re to... She clears her throat.

2.

He follows her up the stairs, her hips swaying, her bottom right before him and it costs him thoughts of new sherry glasses and cans of pomade to not touch her. He knows what’s there under the black taffeta, the white cotton. Beautiful, strong, round... he longs to put his hands on the supple skin, to knead her flesh, pull her close.

She opens the door to the attic and they stand there, insecure what choice to make. Where do they go? His room, her room, each to their own (though that would never do, spending their wedding night apart).

“Mine, I think...” Her voice is wavering slightly and he sees rather than hears her quickened breathing. He knows it’s not the stairs, is thankful that it is for him, because she longs for him the way he longs for her.

It will be difficult to be quiet, especially because he wants to do things to her that will make her cry out, that will make the small bed creak in protest. He wants to hear his name fall from her lips as he pushes her over the edge - she is so beautiful when she loses control, when she comes for him.

She tentatively opens her door, as if she expects something to happen and she is right: there is a makeshift double bed in there, a cot has been pushed against hers. Impeccably made. He hears her whisper ‘Anna’, sees her pull back the covers. There is a note on the pillow:

‘Don’t worry about morning duties, we’ll see to them

John and Anna’

He puts his arm around her shoulder, pulls her close, takes the note, puts it on the small vanity.

“They’ll take care of morning duties...” She bites her lip, reddening it more. “Now... let me take care of you.”

She smiles - oh, how he loves her smile, he doesn’t see it enough, he needs to find a way to see it more - and puts her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him and it’s like an explosion and he cannot hold back. His hands come to rest at her hips first, but slide to cup her bottom - he could stop it if he wanted to, of course, but he doesn’t want to.

Their tongues duel, dance, curl and she moans softly when he squeezes her, palms her, lets his hands wander to the front of her dress, start working on the tiny buttons, the hooks and eyes, pushes the material off her arms.

He unties her underskirt, lets it pool on top of the dress and it looks like she is emerging from the sea (he fleetingly thinks how he would love to take her to one of the Caribbean islands, to make love to her in the white sand, the water just liicking at their bodies). She doesn’t stop kissing him, has him out of his jacket, his waistcoat, before he knows it. She is untying his tie, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Why...” Kiss. “Do we...” Kiss. “Wear so many...” Kiss. “Clothes?” Kiss. It’s so...” Kiss. “Bothersome...” and she has his shirt off, her hand moving to the waistband of his trousers, and he is suddenly worried she will feel how hard he is for her, doesn’t want to frighten her, doesn’t want her to think him a brute.

Her fingers seem accustomed to the work, for the trousers fall to floor with ease and they chuckle - he’s not taken off his shoes, his socks and she is still in her stockings, her corset. He sits on the bed, takes off his shoes while he watches her take care of the corset - pushes the busk together, her breasts rising with the movement, then breaking free and he leaps from his position to struggle out of his trousers, his socks are flung through the room - they will find their clothes crumpled and wrinkled in the morning, but he doesn’t care for once, cares only that it is his wedding night, that this beautiful creature wants him, him! and he wants to make sure neither of them will ever forget.


	17. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some plotless smut. Final chapter and epilogue! Hope you enjoyed the story - thanks all for the kudos and comments!

_some months later_

1.

“Where are you going?”

His hand wraps around her wrist, tugging her back into bed, slides the covers over her, snuggles up. She doesn’t want to leave - obviously not. She wants his arm around her waist, his morning wood against her bottom. Wants to turn over sleepily and kiss him awake, wants him to pull at the hem of her nightgown.

She wants him to knead her bottom. Wants to rub against him, press herself against his wide chest and kiss his shoulders before her manipulates them so he is hovering over her and attacks her with gentle kisses and nips. She wants to help him out of his pants, to touch him, to feel the soft skin over hardness in her hand, wants to drag it through her folds, wants him inside.

“I should get dressed... they are expecting me...”

She really means it, but he is so hard to resist and she lets him pull her to him, lets him put his arm around her, his hand at the small of her back, his thumb just rubbing the elastic of her new fangled knickers through her nightgown, his lips already where her shoulder meets her neck and she cannot help but roll just so her hip is touching his, his desire prodding her belly and she wants it, wants it so badly.

“I don’t care.” He mumbles between kisses, between snaking his free hand under her dress, sliding it over the back of her thigh, over the cotton of her knickers, pressing slightly into the cleft between her buttocks. She knows he can feel how much she wants him, knows the cotton is soaking up her wetness.

“We can’t leave them to fend for themselves...”

But he kisses her deeply and she is under him like she hoped she would be and his hands set her skin alight. She yearns for him and it’s not even light outside. She had not expected things to be this way, had not expected he would sit next to her in church and her mind not on the sermon, but on the way he had sucked on her nipple not half an hour earlier, leaving her aching for his touch.

“They must learn...”

Her nightgown is being pulled over her head, her knickers pushed down, a trail of soft kisses over her breastbone, a surprising lick around her belly button, more kisses further south and she opens her legs, his tongue trailing her folds and she moans loudly.

“Yes... maybe you’re right...”

She is so easily persuaded.

2.

He is no longer happily shocked she is so wet for him, but he still revels in it. He sometimes worries his want is too much for her, but she has not once said ‘no’, not once has she shown less enthusiasm. He finds her willing at every opportunity, sees a whole new side of her he never knew was there: a happy, joyful Elsie who potters around the kitchen and grabs him by his tie and pulls him into a hungry kiss, making him so hot for her he cannot help but pin her between himself and the table, hiking up her skirt, pushing her knickers aside and taking her there (those new knickers have been something he needed to get used to, if he is honest he prefers the old fashioned ones with the easy access).

She reaches for him now, pushes down his pyjama bottoms and pants and he is thankful he no longer sleeps in his buttoned pyjama tops, is nude from the waist up always, it keeps them on even footing - both only two garments to get rid off.

He kisses her mouth and feels how she licks his bottom lip. He is hovering over her and he slides to the side, taking her with him, her body glorious on top of him, the early dawn casting shadows from her hair as it escapes her plait, from her breasts. He reaches for them as she slides down on him and she is so wet and so tight and he cannot help but hiss how good it feels, how wonderful she is to him.

They rock back and forth, up a bit, down a bit and he knows he fills her to the brim and that he is close to bursting, but that she needs more, more time, more stimulation, more friction and he licks his thumb, places it just so, just there and her gasps tell him he has found the right spot.

He had not thought he would enjoy the search for that perfect spot so much, had not thought he would get so much pleasure from hers, from seeing her open wide for him and allowing him to touch her so intimately. He had not thought he would find such pleasure in the noises she makes when he hits that special spot and he had not thought that there would be such joy in the simplest kiss, given with ease when he comes in from working in the garden, or when she comes home from Downton where she training the new Housekeeper.

“I... I can’t... Charles... I need... I need you to... Please...” She is begging and he knows what she wants, what she craves and he will give it to her, for she is his mistress and he will serve her until his dying breath.


End file.
